Ciego Montero…

Looking through my –by now- “famed” memory banks, this little train stop as I remember it, was a thermal water/mud therapy spot which was well known in Cuba back in the 30’s to the 60’s. Sufferers of arthritis, rheum, back pains, etc… they all found at least, a lessening of pain when the body was submerged in the thermal pools.

This little out of the way place was somewhere my grandfather had taken me at one time or another, so it came to me to look it up in the ubiquitous jack-of-all-searches “Google-it”. I was thinking about these small baths (then really a train stop, there were no roads all the way in) in the middle of the “jungle” and not sure what would be the search result but, lo and behold!! There were pages of reference and several images to boot. It seems that the little out of the way train stop has now become, while still remaining small, a major curative center of international importance, where the business emporium includes an Italian-Cuban bottling company, which sells tons of bottled water in the manner of sodas and/or plain mineral water. And yes, there is a road all the way into the baths now.  Not a big road mind you, but a road.

Actually, a picture of the old train station (a small bus-stop like little building) came up in the search, old and worn out, as well as that of a train like the one we used whenever we went there. Except this one is a sugar cane laden train and that old one was a passenger train.

The old train stop... It did look better 55 yrs ago...

This really was an expedition for us. Usually on a Saturday, we were made ready the night before and had to get up early in the morning. My grandfather was a firm believer in the curative powers of these thermal baths and he went at least once every two months or so, spending the whole day there and going through the whole process, which included a great country lunch with meat from animals raised right there, as well as viands which were tended with, supposedly, the waters from the magical river.  All in all it was very nutritive and simple fare. We drank water from the source, which meant from a little fountain fed from the spring. Probably if I were to drink it today my internal immune system would become very ill, after so many years of chlorine and fluoride water.

-“Vamos Rafaelito, que nos están esperando”

-“Let’s go, the others are waiting for us” would say my grandfather by way of an “It’s time to get up” call.

The River Source

My grandfather’s right hand man Loyola (his last name, as we all called each other then and, besides, his first name escapes me) did suffer from a lung ailment and I think he was the main reason my GF made these pilgrimages to the baths. He would take Loyola every time and this would be his excuse for the days’ travel.

Since it was still dark outside it would take me a short while to come to life, finally, eventually… making it to the car. I remember it as being a 4 door 1954 Plymouth Belvedere; it was a two tone, pink on top and white below… (no comments from the peanut gallery, please) and it was the greatest car in the world, as far as I was concerned. In this car my grandfather taught me to drive when I was a mere 10 years old and by age 13 and much to my sister’s consternation, he would allow me to drive partway whenever we went to visit my uncle and aunt, who lived about 200 miles away.

As we left early in the AM, our first stop would be at Loyola’s house, followed by picking up anyone else who might be going. The drive was to Palmira, a small town about 7 miles outside our own city, passed the airport and the main cemetery. Once in the town, the car would be left and the small train taken. It was a local train, for the baths were a mere 15 miles north of Palmira; there would be an old, small locomotive and the coal tender, equally small, followed by two or three (depending on how many people were waiting) gleaming wood passenger cars, like the ones you see in a museum today. All passengers would get on (all going to the same place, since there was only one stop) and the slow trip through the countryside would start. This was my favorite part; the trees, the pastures and, eventually the very dense forest like area which surrounded the baths. We would cross the small river and then alight at the little terminal. The train would remain there until the afternoon, when it would make the return trip. All in all, it would take about 2 ½ hours to make it; today it seems impossible… it was only a total of 23-24 miles yet, in those days that is what it took and what made these forays so memorable for me.

Imagine two passenger wagons instead
and you have the train

Once inside, the routine was always the same. We would have some refreshments to temper the weariness of the trip… (well…) Then, we would change into special swimsuits and proceed to the three stage process.  First, the mudbath; very warm thermal mud having a high caustic and sodium content; after some 30 minutes, and just before being baked into a mud statue we would then move on to the thermal showers, where all the mud would be sloughed off and, finally, the thermal pool. A steaming hot natural spring fed (constant feed) water pool, high in several components (forget which) and where we would just sit and relax for a good hour or so, letting nature do its thing.  We would then don our robes and have the aforementioned lunch on the outside gardens, returning to the pool for a last dip, prior to getting dried, dressing and returning in the waiting train. 

It doesn’t sound like much; perhaps the most precious side of this for me, besides the train trip, was being in the company of my grandfather and his friend(s) who made me feel important and good. Besides, the bloody mud and water treatment did make me feel truly better. By the end of the day one felt somewhat rejuvenated (I felt like I was 5 years old again… Please keep your comments to yourself!!) As for Loyola, unfortunately his ailment was much more serious. He had the beginnings of emphysema which wasn’t made better by the fact that he was a heavy, non repentant smoker. The baths probably made him feel cleaner and fresher, but not much more I’m afraid. He was also made to feel important by my grandfather and his friends, and I think this had a somewhat curative effect as well.

Small places along the way which, when brought alongside all the other small places visited and stored in the memory bank, make a life; moments which meant much and which are part of my history and my story. A dearest friend commented to me today she felt somewhat rootless, having moved several times in her lifetime. So do I, said me… yet as we talked a bit, we came to understand that there are physical roots and then there are emotional roots, which are those which remain with you throughout the ages and travels, and through the travails as well. These little places and spaces are very much a part of those emotional roots.

Today's entry road

Ciego Montero, Cienfuegos, Cuba… sometime around 1953-58.

Be Well… Be Back!!